'Twas Christ that spoke, while sitting on the Ass Beneath the brows of Olivet, He gaz'd Upon the rebel city, which, alas! Was, in His weeping eyes, already raz'd: Calm'd by His mild rebuke, I could not chide Nor wipe His tears, and though His utmost grief Lay bare before me, proffer'd no relief, But, 'Oh! forgive my folly, Lord', I cried, - Vailing the fair presumptuous palm I bore, To the dark Cross His meeker servant wore; 'Or I would rather be this little foal That stands and waits, where Thou would'st wait and weep, Than the light thinker, who would fain control Thy love, and lull Thy holy pains to sleep.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VISIONS OF THE DAUGHTERS OF ALBION by WILLIAM BLAKE THE DEAR PRESIDENT by JOHN JAMES PIATT THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: JANUARY by EDMUND SPENSER IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 7 by ALFRED TENNYSON |